The flower I never touched

I once loved a flower—so soft, so divine, Its petals like whispers, its scent like wine. And though my hands ached to cradle its grace, I chose to admire from a reverent place. The world taught me love was to take and to hold, To clutch beauty tight before it grew old. But I saw in its stillness, a truth of its own— That love sometimes means to leave it alone. I watched it sway in the soft morning air, Untouched by my longing, free from my care. It bloomed not for me, but it bloomed all the same, Without needing a promise, a touch, or a name. And though I still ache for the feel of its bloom, I know it was safer outside my gloom. For sometimes the kindest and hardest of art, Is loving so deeply, you let it depart.